Scratched into steel — the photography of the outside vision
[The flip side of a sunny side up. Birthmarks — scratches. screeches — lines of yolk everywhere]
— Okay, here is the poem —
Even from a tower, vehicle tyre sounds roll in the sinks of this house.
Even at an inclination, this house is a bus — filled with fumes of lost experiments
A ghost train. A ghost argument. A ghost night
burns in the candles: headlights of this bus
Those letters written from the road, hang in my photo room
They dry and get wet again and then they dry and then they
smell of gasoline. The bus takes a turn towards the dust.
Tourists put scarves on their nose while people like us —
sneeze in comfort
Damn: the lines of yolk are running in this kitchen
like kids dangling in the bus, their schools bags dodging
the smoke of this straightway. Then wet — then dry — gasoline again
The accelerator makes that sound that you made when you ran with the dog
‘Screech of the velvet yolk’ I call it. Screech of the afternoon wet and then dry
When the bus swings and topples, all its people topple with it
they rock like babies before the crash and then they rise from the fumes
A few tyres screech in farland — yolks stiffen much before the eggs are exposed to temperatures they never anticipate. Baby buses emerge
from new cities. They are wet until they dry.
They hang on the photo line
and take all of it down
A vivid (purple and gold) gasoline forest makes it
to these cities and city eaters.
Even from a tower, vehicle tyre sounds roll in the sinks of this house
Even from no light, eyes open to spilling irises — the yolks spread and
no matter how many buses after — we see — we see